


The Adventure Of The Illustrious Client (1903)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [209]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Bees, Destiel - Freeform, Gay Sex, Government Conspiracy, Johnlock - Freeform, Jumpers, M/M, Restraints, The Royal Navy, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 21:36:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11837517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A murder is announced by a man representing many 'illustrious clients', so the dynamic duo travel to the Isle of Wight to prevent it. And true love starts with the ugliest of jumpers!





	The Adventure Of The Illustrious Client (1903)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomskittles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomskittles/gifts).



Many and varied were the people who had sat in that famous fireside chair in Baker Street (which Sherlock had already arranged to purchase from Mrs. Lindberg and have moved to our new abode when we left). Tall or short, fat or thin, male or female, young or old, I had seen them all. Or at least, that was what I had thought. But that cold January morning shortly before my fifty-first birthday, I was having to revise that particular opinion.

The middle-aged and slightly plump fellow wearing a yellow and black striped jumper with the words ‘Bee Happy!’ in black and yellow writing was, I had to admit… different. His name was Mr. Kay Tulling, and even with my somewhat limited (as in non-existent) detective skills, I had just about been able to guess even before he told us that he was a bee-keeper. And not just any bee-keeper, but one with an illustrious connection in an illustrious profession.

“I have travelled up from the Isle of Wight today, sirs”, he said, “in the hope that you can help me with a most puzzling case.”

“We will certainly hear your request”, Sherlock said, somehow not smiling at the little man who was rather too like a bee for comfort. He even somehow managed a slight buzz when he spoke. I was glad I was not in his direct line of sight, so that I could hide my own smile more easily, though of course that did not save me from a warning glance courtesy of the resident mind-reader.

“I am what is known as the Royal Bee-Keeper”, our guest said, clearly proud of that fact. “Officially I am merely another gardener to His Majesty, but my prime duty is to my bees. I work at Osborne House which, as I am sure you are both aware, was gifted to the nation by the new king only recently.”

That was a tactful way of putting it, I thought. After poor Prince Albert's death back in 1861, his widow Queen Victoria had spent a large amount of her time at the island house, effectively turning into a shrine for the husband who had so unfairly predeceased her by full four decades. Little wonder that their son, who had rarely seen eye to eye with either parent, had been so eager to rid himself of the mausoleum. 

“His Majesty gifted the house to the nation on his Coronation Day”, Mr. Tulling said, “and ten of us were transferred from royal employment to the government, in order to continue to maintain the house and gardens. However, the government now wishes to create a naval college on part of the grounds.”

“They are sacking you?” I asked, surprised.

“Good heavens, no!” he said with a laugh. “His Majesty made it quite clear that should anything like this happen, then he would take us back into his service and find a place for us somewhere. That was _guaranteed!”_

“I see”, Sherlock said, which was more than I did. “So how may we be of service to you, sir?”

His next statement was.... interesting.

“The bees have told me that someone is about to try to kill someone.”

Fortunately, many years of writing down strange things, only a few of which came close to matching that statement in its utter weirdness, prevented me from coughing violently. Sherlock, of course, took it all in his stride.”

“I am to presume that they did not extend to mentioning the killer or the victim?” he asked, as if insect-predicted deaths were a daily occurrence at 221B.

“Not as such”, he said, “but the day before, we had been told that we were to receive two important visitors concerning the establishment of the naval college. Sir Charles Balliol and Admiral Hardy.”

I nodded, knowing both names. Sir Charles was the career politician, but committed more to the British Navy that any political party, an attitude that had earned him the respect of the general public but the distrust of his political ‘friends’. And Admiral Hardy was from the same stock (though not a direct descendant) of Nelson’s Hardy, an old sea-dog whose attitude was ‘shoot first, then shoot more later’. He commanded at least as much respect (if not fear) as Sir Charles. 

“When are these two gentlemen coming?” Sherlock asked. 

“Next Monday, five days from now”, our guest said.

“Then we must endeavour to be ready”, Sherlock said. “I have visited the nearby town of Cowes before during their regatta, and I am sure that we can find somewhere suitable there for a few days.”

“You will help?” Mr. Tulling asked, clearly surprised.

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “Though a town-dweller, apiculture has always been an interest of mine, and I hope to have a set of hives when I retire to the country, some time in the future. I am at your – and, of course, your bees’ - disposal.”

+~+~+

“You think our guest quite mad, do you not?” Sherlock asked, once our visitor had left with the reassurance that we would be down first thing the next day.

I hesitated. If Sherlock was into bees and such, then it behooved me as his partner to be supportive, no matter how weird things got. I did not particularly look forward to having the stinging insects in the cottage's back garden, but if Sherlock had decided to keep pet elephants out there, I would have gone along with it. Instead I opted for a slight change of subject.

“I am surprised that, if he is the Royal Bee-Keeper, he did not move to another palace when Osborne was given away”, I said.

Clearly my efforts at avoiding trouble had met with their usual degree of zero success. He chuckled.

“It is a good thing that you did not voice that opinion in front of our visitor”, he smiled. “He might have had a fit! Bees move as and when it suits them, and more than one colony had been destroyed by attempts to relocate it. He may take a spare queen and some new bees to establish a second colony in time, but he will keep this one going as long as he can.”

“And you believe that his bees are psychic?” I asked, doubtfully,

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”, he quoted.

“Hmm”, I said. “Well, if I end up getting stung, it is going to be your fault!”

+~+~+

The following day we travelled to Waterloo Station and caught the London & South Western Railway express to Southampton, which reminded me of our case with the Morris Men five years back. From the impressive terminus it was a brisk walk to the ferry across to Cowes, and a leisurely hour spent cruising down a mercifully calm Southampton Water (after my last sea-voyage, King Neptune owed me that and more!). I watched Sherlock leaning over the side of the boat, his hair even wilder than usual, and not for the first time thought how lucky I was.

Sherlock’s statement that he would find ‘somewhere suitable’ for us to stay at during our time on the island turned out to be true, and then some. The house was right on the waterfront in East Cowes (the town was divided by the river Medina, but fortunately we were on the Osborne House side), and positively palatial. Yet my friend looked strangely uneasy at coming here. I was sure that it could not be the case, little of it as there yet was, so I asked him outright.

“This was one of the places I stayed in after Lawrence”, he said quietly. “After I saw you that time in Piccadilly, I knew that I had to keep away from London, before my love for you led me to do something foolish, something that might endanger you. I spent some time in Scotland, then undertook a case concerning the regatta for a friend of Luke's, and he arranged for me to stay here for a few months as payment.”

Then I realized. We had never had a case on the island before, yet he had spoken with the bee-keeper of past times there. 

“It brings back unhappy memories?” I asked.

“Of course I was unhappy here”, he said bitterly. “I wanted to be with you; I wanted to tell you that I was alive. I wanted you, John Watson, body and soul. But I could not put your life in danger just to ease my unhappiness, whilst there were Moriartys trying to kill one or the other of us.”

“But you saved me”, I said firmly, seeing how upset he was by the memories from this place. I took him by the hand and tugged him towards the stairs. “Come on.”

“What?” he asked.

“I want us to make some good memories of this place, to replace the bad!” I grinned.

+~+~+

The one odd thing about the place was a series of mast beams, huge poles running the height of the house. There was one in the main bedroom, a huge thing nearly a foot thick between the foot of the bed and the side wall. And I was tied to it.

Sherlock, the sneaky bastard, must have been planning on something like this happening, because no sooner had he gotten me naked than he produced a long coil of rope from a cupboard. Even in my excited state, I could see this was not the usual coarse rope used on ships, but much smoother, though probably almost as strong. It certainly bound me to the post, and I strained ineffectually at the bonds. He stood a little in front of me, and grinned.

“They do say that anticipation is half the pleasure”, he grinned, as he slipped off his shoes and slowly removed his jacket. I could see from the sizeable tent in his trousers that he was as aroused as I was, but at least he could do something about it.

“I'd rather have the other half!” I grumbled, as my cock strained against the cock-ring he had just happened to have had in his pocket, and had slipped on me once I was helpless before him. Though as always, he had whispered that if I got too uncomfortable with this, I merely had to say the word and he would untie me. But I wanted to see how far he could push me, so I held back. For now, at least.

He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the ground, and I groaned again. The bastard was wearing my harness, including the attachable cock-ring. He came over to me and rubbed against my rope-bound form, and I could smell the heady mixture of leather and his manly scent. Scent-marking me was one of his little peccadilloes, and not one that I really minded as it made me feel that I belonged to him even more. Having applied himself liberally to me, he stood back and began to remove his trousers.

Lord above, he was wearing no underwear! I groaned and strained at the ropes binding me; it was probably my fevered imagination, but they seemed to be giving just a little.

I had momentarily taken my mind off of the gorgeous sight in front of me, and when I looked back he was naked except for his socks, blue and yellow with bees on them. I would have laughed, but them he began to rub his hand along his cock, looking hungrily at me as he did so. I whined; I so wanted to be with him, but even if my arms had been free, he was just out of my reach. 

He jerked himself faster, then slowed down for some reason. I stared, then watched as he eased himself onto the bed and began to open himself up, groaning in anticipation of what was to come (him, the lucky bastard!). I felt the want in me surging like a tidal wave, the desperation that I could not reach what I so badly wanted, and I growled angrily. He grinned, then sped up his hand movements, until he suddenly unclipped the ring and came all over his chest.

With an almighty heave I suddenly freed myself from the restraining ropes and almost flew across the room to where he was lying. I do not think I had ever entered Sherlock quite so fast, and it was a good thing that he was as prepared as he was, for even then he grunted before slamming back down onto me. It became a vicious contest, two men fighting for dominance, until my befuddled haze cleared enough to remember something. I reached down and managed to unclip the cock-ring that had been holding me back. 

For a moment my only thought was that this was why the French called this la petite morte, or the little death. I honestly feared that I had finally overdone it, and that I would die inside my lover. Then my body finally managed to get its act together and I came violently, so hard that I nearly pushed myself out in the process. I hung onto Sherlock fervently, and he whispered quiet praises and thanks into my ear as I sank on top of him.

“We had better not do that again”, he said once my heart-rate had returned to normal. “It was a little too much for both of us.”

I was silently grateful that his sentence did not contain the word 'age'. Or 'you'.

“I love you so much!” I panted, grasping him tightly to me as if I was afraid that he might leave for some reason. He eased himself back down onto me and smiled gently. 

“And I shall still remember this place”, he smiled. “Only now, it will always bring a smile.”

I smiled back at him and we both lay there, broken but ecstatic.

+~+~+

Some time later, when I was once more capable of movement, we made it to lunch at a rather nice tavern in the town, before returning to the house where Mr. Tulling had arranged for a carriage to come for us from Osborne (an expense I felt a little guilty over, as it was barely a mile away). The man himself met us, and – oh Lord, he was wearing another jumper almost identical to the first, except this one had ‘Bee Serious!’ on it instead. I do not know why was worse; the fact that he probably had a whole set of the things, or the envious look in Sherlock’s eyes which told me that, because I was such a wonderful partner, my next birthday present for him had already been fixed. As had the tackiness content of his wardrobe back in Baker Street, to an even higher level than it had already attained!

I sighed resignedly. The things that people do for love!

“Mr. Richard Goodman came down this morning”, Mr. Tulling said glumly. “The admiral’s second-in-command or some such; he clearly thinks a good deal of himself. The bees were _not_ impressed.”

“I defer to their judgement”, Sherlock smiled. “Let us adjourn somewhere, and we can discuss matters.”

Mr. Tulling took us to his cottage, which was small but well-kept. I looked around, half-expecting a swarm of bees to descend without warning.

“The hives are kept between the flower and the herb gardens”, our host explained, as we sat down on his small front porch. “Those are the two best sources of food for the bees, so naturally it makes sense to have them close at hand. I have tried to persuade the head gardener to plant things more sensibly, but he persists in the belief that looks are more important that the convenience of the bees.”

Most people would agree with him, I thought, though I had the good sense not to say it. I could already see our cottage garden ending up as a bee heaven. Well, if it made Sherlock happy, so be it.

“Tell us about the planned naval college”, my friend said.

“It is mainly being set up in the stable block”, Mr. Tulling said, “so it should not impinge on the house too much. I would not normally be interested in such things, you understand, but anything that touches on the welfare of my bees takes priority.”

“Of course”, Sherlock said gravely.

“As I explained before, five of us are to be re-assigned”, he said. “It really is a case of pot luck as to where we may end up, thought an actual job is as I said guaranteed, which in this day and age is something. They told us this some months ago, and asked first for people who wanted to move, saying that they would get priority, or at least an attempt to place them somewhere that they preferred. Four men applied, so they had to choose one more. That was when the problems began.”

“What sort of problems?” Sherlock asked.

“The head groundsman is a rather hot-headed Scotsman, a Mr. Angus Colquhoun”, he said. “I had quite expected that, what with His Majesty’s Scottish properties, he would have been one of the volunteers for a move, but he has recently taken up with a local lady, so did not. He was not best pleased when it was his name selected from a hat.”

“A random choice?” I asked. He nodded.

“We all wrote our names on a piece of paper and put them in a hat, then the cook, Mrs. Barnham, drew one out. Oh, we did not include old Mr. Linus, but he is almost blind. It was agreed that he should be excluded.”

“It all sounds very fair and above-board”, Sherlock said. “But Mr. Colquhoun is unhappy?”

“He keeps muttering that the Royal Navy have no right to come here”, our host said. “Of course I seriously doubt that he would do anything drastic – and yet the bees are _sure_ that someone is about to strike.”

“Which action we must endeavour to prevent”, Sherlock said. “I am sure that Sir Charles and the Admiral have their own security details, but it would help to know a little more about them.”

“I would suggest visiting the Ryde Circle”, our host said with a smile. “Not only do those ladies knit these marvellous jumpers, but they know everything about everyone in the Navy. I do not know how, but they do.”

+~+~+

It was almost certainly a coincidence that the Ryde Ladies’ Circle met in the back of a hardware shop, and that when Sherlock and I met the three principal members, they were seated around something that looked rather too much like a large cauldron. And that they were all wearing black. With somewhat pointy hats. And that there was a black cat sat nearby.

I shifted behind Sherlock anyway. Just to be sure.

“That darling Kay says that you wish to know about a couple of old salts”, the tallest of the three said. “I am Esmeralda, by the way, Mrs. Sackville to the locals. These are my friends Mrs. Belton and Mrs. Worsley.”

Sherlock kissed the hands of each of the ladies, and sure enough, each of them simpered at him. All of them married, and Mrs. Sackville had to be at least sixty-five! I gripped my pencil tightly, but said nothing.

“Sir Charles Balliol”, Mrs. Sackville said as we all sat down around the not-cauldron. “A most interesting man; if you cut him, he would probably bleed sea-water. But not, perhaps, a wise man.” 

“Why do you say that?” Sherlock asked.

“Ships are getting more and more expensive”, Mrs Worsley said, “and this government, like all governments, thinks that it can buy more popularity elsewhere. Sir Charles has all the tact of a dreadnought going full speed ahead.”

“What is a dreadnought?” I asked, puzzled.

“The new type of warship that they are designing”, Mrs. Belton said airily. “It will be a great success, more powerful than anything on water. Though not for long, of course.”

My head was spinning.

“The prime minister has enough problems on his plate without Sir Charles sounding off about the decline of the British Navy, in relation to Imperial Germany”, Mrs. Sackville said. “But that is not to say that they might murder him. This is England, not _France_.”

The disdain in her last word was palpable. I thought back to our own encounters with governments of various nationalities including our own, which had always proven themselves morally vacuous to a large extent. They were pretty much as bad as each other, in my opinion.

“Admiral Hardy, on the other hand”, Mrs. Belton said, “is another matter entirely. I think that many in the government are afraid that if they gave the new ships to him, he might start a war with someone just because the mood took him!”

“You make him sound quite dangerous”, Sherlock said.

“Danger takes many forms”, Mrs. Sackville said cryptically. “The Admiral himself is a decent fellow, though even a good man is capable of doing evil.”

She stared meaningfully at Sherlock, who nodded.

“I see”, he said slowly . “I must thank you ladies for your time in this matter. I hope that we have not disturbed you too much.”

“It has been a pleasure to meet you both”, Mrs. Sackville said. “We wish you well in your endeavours.”

There was, regrettably, more simpering before we made our escape. I did not roll my eyes, but it was close.

+~+~+

“Macbeth!” I muttered once we were safely removed from the three ladies. “When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

“When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won”, Sherlock followed on. 

“Let us hope this is one battle that we win”, I said fervently. “England needs its navy.”

We took a walk along the seafront in the little town before heading back to our carriage. We came back via the post office, and Sherlock went in to send some messages to London, which was good as it enabled me to double back and call on the ladies a second time. I had a commission for them – a large one.

+~+~+

The following day was Friday. Sherlock received a telegram at the house at breakfast, and sighed as he read it.

“Problems?” I asked.

“I telegraphed Bacchus about our two guests”, he said. “It seems that they have not been on the best of terms lately, and this visit is in effect a forced reconciliation mission. Some weeks ago, the Admiral criticized Sir Charles privately over the government not doing enough for the Royal Navy, and of course it got out. Sir Charles responded by publicly referring to 'little Nelsons and their sidekicks who always want to start unnecessary wars', in other words, his usual degree of subtlety. The prime minister himself insisted that they come down here together and sort their differences out.”

“It must have been something to draw in Mr. Balfour”, I said. The current Conservative prime minister was regarded by many, including myself, as little more than a safe pair of hands that was better than any of the alternatives on offer. That, and he was his predecessor Lord Salisbury's nephew, all but inheriting the post from his uncle. It was almost like Elizabethan times!

“Mr. Balfour, like all politicians, thinks that he can have all the benefits of the Royal Navy without actually spending any money on it”, Sherlock said. “Which reminds me, I wanted to ask you about bee-stings.”

I blinked, not seeing the connection there.

“What about them?” I asked.

“Can they be fatal?” he asked. “It might be just our luck that one of them stings one of our visitors on Monday.”

“Very rarely”, I said. “It is an ongoing area of study, like most medicine I suppose, but only a very few people are vulnerable. Besides, a bee will only sting if it feels endangered.”

“But a human reaction to them is normally to wave their arms about, which I would suppose upset them”, Sherlock said. “Could you treat someone who had been stung and had then reacted badly?”

“That would depend on the extent of their reaction”, I said. “You do not think that the bees themselves are going to attempt a murder that they announced?”

“I think that I would like to talk more with our ardent apiculturist”, Sherlock said. “But there is no hurry. We shall see him on Monday, before his honoured guests arrive.”

+~+~+

We spent a most pleasant weekend in the small town – no more ropes were used, but the beams were, as well as several other items that Sherlock had 'just happened' to bring from London - and on Monday Mr. Tulling again sent the carriage for us. Once we had arrived, Sherlock turned to him.

“I have heard it said that bees cannot sting a person without dying”, he said, “Is that true?”

“Only partly”, the man said. “Some bees have the sting as a growth of their body, so they literally have to rip themselves apart to escape. Others, like the species that we keep here, grow the sting separately. But neither will sting unless they feel threatened; even if it is not fatal to them, growing back a sting takes a great deal of effort. Besides, they are busy gathering food right now, so they have other things on their minds.”

We talked amiably for about an hour until our three visitors arrived. The Admiral was much as I had expected, a bluff old sea-dog who, somewhat surprisingly I thought, was wearing a short-sleeved naval jumper with 'HMS Achilles' on it, presumably one of his ships. He was clearly on poor terms with Sir Charles, who could have stepped straight out of Whitehall with his perfect black suit and neatly-pressed white shirt. Only the gusty wind in off the Solent blowing everyone's hair into a mess (and Sherlock's into an even worse one!) ruffled his perfect appearance. The third person was presumably Mr. Richard Goodman, the Admiral's aide, a small, dark-haired middle-aged fellow who seemed permanently nervous. Then again, as he had probably been sat between those two all the way from London, I supposed that that was understandable.

Mr. Angus Colquhoun, the head groundsman, came out to meet our guests, and seemed less than pleased to the addition of Sherlock and I to the group, though he said nothing. He was very much as I had imagined him, a red-headed giant of a fellow who could have modelled for the typical Celtic warrior. Mr. Tulling returned to his bees.

All went well until we were walking past the flower garden towards the wood and the beach. The Admiral paused to take a swig from his flask, and we continued on a few more steps before it happened. Mr, Goodman suddenly stepped forward and slapped his superior on the arm. The Admiral looked at him in surprise.

“Why'd you do that, Dick?” he asked. Then his eyes glazed over and he slumped to the floor. 

“A bee”, Mr. Goodman snapped. “The Admiral is allergic! I told him not to come here!”

He spun round to face Sir Charles.

“This is all your fault!” he said angrily. “You and your stupid argument!”

“This is neither the time nor the place for recriminations”, Sherlock said firmly. “We need to get this man to the house. Unless, doctor, you think it better to treat him here?”

I had been looking at the Admiral's arm for the bee-sting, but it must have fallen out, which was a good thing. I was dimly aware that Mr. Tulling had emerged from the flower-garden and handed something to Sherlock, but was focussed totally on my prone patient.

Who promptly rose to his feet and winced. Then he looked across at Sherlock.

“Thank you”, he said gravely.

“What the....?”

Sherlock had moved round to behind where Sir Charles and Mr. Goodman were standing. The aide was staring at him in shock, for my friend had without warning dragged his hands round behind his back and handcuffed him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he protested.

“Attempted murder”, Sherlock said. “A most unique one. Murder by a mock bee-sting is one of the most unconventional methods that I have ever come across.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The Admiral here has been aware for some time that there has been a spy in his department”, he said. “Not a foreign one, but one placed there by his own government. He quickly reasoned that that man was Mr. Goodman here, and set out to entrap him.”

“Lies!” the aide spat out.

“I have to congratulate you, Sir Charles, on your role as well”, Sherlock said. “It was essential that Mr. Goodman believe that there was a bitter disagreement between the two of you, so that you could be forced into a meeting to 'smooth things over'. You arranged for that meeting to be here, near some bee-hives. Then the Admiral, when informed by his aide of the plan, casually mentioned that he is strongly allergic to bee-stings, thus offering him a chance to remove a source of irritation for the government.”

Sherlock turned to the aide.

“You poisoned the Admiral's flask with something designed to cause the same reaction as a bee-sting”, he said. “Once you saw him drinking from it, you had to make sure that he would be 'stung' soon after. The ring you wore on your finger today has a sharp spike in it, and in the confusion afterwards it was easy for you to throw it over the low wall into the flower-garden. Unfortunately for you, your plans were known beforehand. I had Mr. Tulling there ready to receive it, and he has just handed it back to me.”

The aide groaned, and Mr. Colquhoun made short work of dragging him back to the house, where two policemen were waiting.

+~+~+

“So that was why the Admiral was wearing a short-sleeved top, then?” I asked.

We were back in our palatial Cowes home. Sherlock nodded.

“I telegraphed him when I knew his aide would be targeting him”, he said. “He told me of his plan, and I offered to help.”

“How did you know it was him?” I asked.

“The ladies in Ryde told us”, he said, as if it were obvious.

“What?”

He tilted his head at me.

“'Even a good man is capable of doing evil', remember?” he said. “A Good man, called Richard.”

I groaned.

“That reminds me”, he said, pointing to a well-wrapped brown paper package next to my bag. “The ladies asked you to visit them yesterday before we left the island. Any particular reason?”

“Oh”, I said. “Yes.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me. I handed the package over to him.

“It seemed only fair”, I muttered. “I can never top what you gave me for your birthday last September, but..... well, I saw how you looked at it. And the ladies worked flat out to get it done in time. They will send the rest to London when they are done.”

He looked curiously at the package, as if he could somehow see what was inside without opening it. Then he very carefully unwrapped it, and extracted the contents. It was a large yellow and black jumper.

“It is lovely”, he smiled. “Thank you.”

“It has writing on it, too”, I said, still feeling embarrassed. I did not do mushy moments, but for Sherlock, I would force myself. He unfolded the jumper and held it up against his chest. The inscription on the front was 'Bee Mine!'. 

He looked at me and smiled.

“Always and forever, John”, he said quietly. “Always and forever.”

Twenty months to go. 

+~+~+

Postscriptum: In fairness to Mr. Balfour, I feel compelled to add that it later emerged Mr. Goodman's actions were undertaken not at his behest, but at that of a senior Cabinet member. There was some pressure on me to not publish this case, but when it was made clear that I was going to do so, the member in question left the government 'to pursue other interests', and most wisely did not attempt to return.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, a little knowledge can be dangerous enough to land you in jail – even if you have not committed much of a crime.


End file.
